I quit my job at FISHto’s despite Tyrell hounding me about the management program. Not that things weren’t going well, but I’d been hanging in the public library on the day that tatted, cranky librarian tacked a “Help Wanted” sign to the bulletin board. I immediately took it down, handed it back to her, and said, “I’m it.”

She didn’t argue, and I’ve since become the fastest shelver they’ve got.

By late April, Jameer frequently dropped by during my evening shifts, and my librarian boss didn’t give a damn if I was chatty during work, as long as it was a quiet kind of chatty. He tagged behind my book cart, and kept me up on how the Pledgers were doing. Ralph and Bobby were still making horrible—but improving—music, and apparently had girlfriends. More material for their songs, I guess. Helena and Shanice got that praise dance team off the ground. Apparently, they all missed me.

“They need their answer man, right?” I didn’t intend for it to sound mean.

Jameer checked me immediately. “They miss their friend.”

They were younger than me, so I rarely crossed paths with them at school. I’d make a point to change that, even if it got me a few tardy slips.

“What about you?” I asked. “I know things have been changing at First Missionary, but I can’t imagine it’s changed that much.”

“Actually, all those new people who came, a few were LGBTQ, Del. Openly. And they’re still coming.”

I was shelving books on theoretical mathematics, working the social calculations in my head. “What Newsome have to say about that?”

“He’s . . . adjusting. Sister Vanessa is helping him navigate the new rainbow-colored sheep in his flock. No one’s run away yet. So, progress.”

“Your parents, too.”

Sadness wafted off him. I rolled my cart to the next bank of shelves, still felt it as he followed. “Not so much. I honestly think if anyone leaves this new version of First Missionary, it’s going to be them. But, their frustration has been more with Pastor than me. They don’t have any new, great ways to punish me. No matter what they do, I’m not hiding myself anymore. So, it’s acceptance or bust. I only know I’m not going to be the one who breaks. Not ever again.”

“Damn. Ramsey ain’t coming over for dinner, then.”

Jameer scrutinized the spine of some rock-and-roll singer’s memoir. “We broke up, so no.”

“Why? Was it because of your people? They messed y’all up?”

“No, Del. He bored me. Everything isn’t tragic.”

“Oh.” Moving on. I said, “Can you still help me after work?”

“You brought it?”

“In the car.”

“Then I’m helping you. But you’re going to have to practice a lot to get it right by Saturday.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have waited so late.”

“I know.”

“Don’t say ‘better late than never.’ It’s trite, and you can be more refined than that.”

“I wasn’t.” I was. He still had a way with words.